It's that time of year
'Tis the season to be jolly
The annual event to...
Go off your trolley.
Spending money you haven't got
Which could clear the national debt
Wasting enough food to feed the homeless
Raise your glass..now we're set.
It's the biggest con trick
Since the Con-Dems came to power
No wonder people misunderstand me
Mistake my indifference for a glower.
You've probably guessed
I think christmas is shite
Offer me the bribe of free food
And I won't even bite.
It wouldn't matter if I was rich
I'm rather more poor but...
If I were a millionaire
I'd still lock myself behind my front door.
They'd love me to come round
The family all in one place
But then I apparently make them uneasy
So they say, but not to my face.
I'm happy with DVDs from the library
A chance to put up my feet
None of that commercial quasi-religous clap-trap
The way I do it suits me neat.
It's not that I don't love my brothers & sisters
Take it as read that I do
I'm just sick of feeling an outsider
At this christmas charade of a zoo.
Despite that I love my family
More than I might admit
If only they'd respect me
And accept I think christmas is shit.
Show off your tinsel tree
Sparkling candles and lights
Christmas paper over the cracks
Hope to avoid family fights.
Just come and pop round
Free food is the deal
As if I'll suddenly enjoy christmas
For the price of a nice meal.
They say it's all about families
And making everyone happy
Totally ignoring the fact
It makes me feel so crappy.
Im fory eight years old now
Surely it can't be hard
To work it all out
That I think it's a charade.
I just wish people would respect
I'm happy home alone
Content in personal and private
Christmas free zone.
(This is something I wrote as I think christmas is a total waste of time, & I hate the 'pretend' 'be nice' false jollity that surrounds it!)
Monday 15 December 2014
Sunday 14 December 2014
"Farewell Jezebel"
They say poetry is depressing
None more so than tonight
I've just done my first feature
Which was a real delight.
A couple of friends came up from Kent
They wanted to hear what I read
But now I've just got a text
To hear his beloved dog is dead.
I was on such a high
Now my spirit's hit the floor
Can't begin to contemplate his shock
After his key turned in the door.
It was a dog he rescued
Beaten in the street
'Let her down' by going to poetry
Now lying dead at his feet.
I hope he doesn't blame himself
For not being there at the end
What thoughts are going through his head
I can't begin to comprehend.
Truth is he loves his animals
More than any bloke I know
To lose his darling Jezebel
Will be such a blow.
But think of the love you gave her
When you saved her from strife
Ending all that cruelty
And gave her a new life.
Take comfort from the fact your a good bloke
Who offered her a second chance
A mate I'm proud to have as a friend
Who saved her without a glance.
That's what makes you special
The fact you couldn't walk by
Hold your head up shed your tears
For tonight you deserve to cry.
Dulwich Poet 14th December 2014
(I was buzzing last night, having done my first ever 'feature set' at a poetry night, up in central London. I was well pleased that two mates of mine had come up from Kent to listen to me, even though they're 'not into poetry'. As I sat on the late night bus home I got a text from Tony, he'd got home to Chatham & his gorgeous pet dog Jezebel had died. A dog he rescued from someone beating it in the street, a few years ago. This poem is for him and Jezebel...)
None more so than tonight
I've just done my first feature
Which was a real delight.
A couple of friends came up from Kent
They wanted to hear what I read
But now I've just got a text
To hear his beloved dog is dead.
I was on such a high
Now my spirit's hit the floor
Can't begin to contemplate his shock
After his key turned in the door.
It was a dog he rescued
Beaten in the street
'Let her down' by going to poetry
Now lying dead at his feet.
I hope he doesn't blame himself
For not being there at the end
What thoughts are going through his head
I can't begin to comprehend.
Truth is he loves his animals
More than any bloke I know
To lose his darling Jezebel
Will be such a blow.
But think of the love you gave her
When you saved her from strife
Ending all that cruelty
And gave her a new life.
Take comfort from the fact your a good bloke
Who offered her a second chance
A mate I'm proud to have as a friend
Who saved her without a glance.
That's what makes you special
The fact you couldn't walk by
Hold your head up shed your tears
For tonight you deserve to cry.
Dulwich Poet 14th December 2014
(I was buzzing last night, having done my first ever 'feature set' at a poetry night, up in central London. I was well pleased that two mates of mine had come up from Kent to listen to me, even though they're 'not into poetry'. As I sat on the late night bus home I got a text from Tony, he'd got home to Chatham & his gorgeous pet dog Jezebel had died. A dog he rescued from someone beating it in the street, a few years ago. This poem is for him and Jezebel...)
Saturday 13 December 2014
"Tonight's The Night"
It's hardly a life changing moment
Everything will be the same
Is this what Warhol meant
When he talked about 15 minutes of fame?
It's taken well over a year to get here
Lots of learning at Open Mic
Never felt like a 'poetry apprenticeship'
It's just something I like.
I can't pretend I'm a real 'proper poet'
Even though I suppose that's what I am
And if anyyone thinks that's kinda weird
Well I don't really give a damn.
Tonight's my first ever feature set
Who knows it could be my last
I suspect it's like playing in the Cup Final
It will flash by so fast.
Sat on the train to work
I've got butterflies inside
But I know tonight I'll do ok
Something to look back on with pride.
I realise it's not a huge gig
Featuring at 'Palaform 1'
But for an ordinary bloke like me it's MASSIVE
When all is said and done.
I'm not hoping for much
Some applause and a bit of laugh
Giving me and the audience pleasure
While wearing my Dulwich Hamlet scarf.
Dulwich Poet 13th December 2014
(I scribbled this down on the train to work this morning. Tonight I am going to the 'Platform 1 Poetry' evening, which is monthly, at the Poetry Cafe in Covent Garden. I have done several five minute Open Mic slots there in the past. Tonight I a 'feature poet', for the first time, having my name on the bill, and getting fifteen minutes to read!)
Everything will be the same
Is this what Warhol meant
When he talked about 15 minutes of fame?
It's taken well over a year to get here
Lots of learning at Open Mic
Never felt like a 'poetry apprenticeship'
It's just something I like.
I can't pretend I'm a real 'proper poet'
Even though I suppose that's what I am
And if anyyone thinks that's kinda weird
Well I don't really give a damn.
Tonight's my first ever feature set
Who knows it could be my last
I suspect it's like playing in the Cup Final
It will flash by so fast.
Sat on the train to work
I've got butterflies inside
But I know tonight I'll do ok
Something to look back on with pride.
I realise it's not a huge gig
Featuring at 'Palaform 1'
But for an ordinary bloke like me it's MASSIVE
When all is said and done.
I'm not hoping for much
Some applause and a bit of laugh
Giving me and the audience pleasure
While wearing my Dulwich Hamlet scarf.
Dulwich Poet 13th December 2014
(I scribbled this down on the train to work this morning. Tonight I am going to the 'Platform 1 Poetry' evening, which is monthly, at the Poetry Cafe in Covent Garden. I have done several five minute Open Mic slots there in the past. Tonight I a 'feature poet', for the first time, having my name on the bill, and getting fifteen minutes to read!)
Friday 12 December 2014
"500 not out..." or "Ooh, fucking hell!"
I've been called some strange things
Like an 'urban Pam Ayres'
Somehow that's not quite true
Not that anyone cares.
I'm just that nondescript stranger
Who writes to kill time on a train
Even if it's the same old stuff
Again and again and again.
I'm an ordinary working class bloke
Trying to make of thoughts in my head
Not sure if that's what I achieve
So you get all this instead.
When I started scribbling at the start of the year
I had no idea what I meant to achieve
My personal bar wasn't set high
But in myself I now believe.
Reading in front of twenty people
Even thirty, forty or more
I'd never claim to be any good
But I know I can hold a floor.
I'm not the world's best educated
My 'O' Level count was one
I couldn't tell you a sonnet from a couplet
I simply write for fun.
I've been described as 'political'
An 'angry man' and worse
Truth is I'm a simple working class poet
Expressing himself in verse.
The first time I went to the Poetry Cafe
I had a million and one fears
And just my luck being a sober alkie
I couldn't hide behind some beers.
As I tiptoed down those rickety steps
I felt I had a mountain to climb
But as soon as I got behind that microphone
I knew this was my time.
For the last year or two I've been learning
Is there such a thing as a poetry craft?
I still sometimes can't believe it
As I shared people have laughed!
These are really cleaver people
Who've got 'A' Levels & Degrees under their hat
I'm just a South London boy called Mishi
Who grew up in a Council flat!
I'm not sure where this is going
So there's only one thing left to say
A big thank you to all who encouraged
And made me the poet I am today!
Dulwich Poet 12th December 2014
(This is, I have no idea how, the 500th poem I done since I started writing them in January last year. It is also the day before I do my first ever 'feature' at a poetry night, at Platform 1, at the Poetry Cafe, a really good night, where I have enjoyed several Open Mic spots in the past.)
Like an 'urban Pam Ayres'
Somehow that's not quite true
Not that anyone cares.
I'm just that nondescript stranger
Who writes to kill time on a train
Even if it's the same old stuff
Again and again and again.
I'm an ordinary working class bloke
Trying to make of thoughts in my head
Not sure if that's what I achieve
So you get all this instead.
When I started scribbling at the start of the year
I had no idea what I meant to achieve
My personal bar wasn't set high
But in myself I now believe.
Reading in front of twenty people
Even thirty, forty or more
I'd never claim to be any good
But I know I can hold a floor.
I'm not the world's best educated
My 'O' Level count was one
I couldn't tell you a sonnet from a couplet
I simply write for fun.
I've been described as 'political'
An 'angry man' and worse
Truth is I'm a simple working class poet
Expressing himself in verse.
The first time I went to the Poetry Cafe
I had a million and one fears
And just my luck being a sober alkie
I couldn't hide behind some beers.
As I tiptoed down those rickety steps
I felt I had a mountain to climb
But as soon as I got behind that microphone
I knew this was my time.
For the last year or two I've been learning
Is there such a thing as a poetry craft?
I still sometimes can't believe it
As I shared people have laughed!
These are really cleaver people
Who've got 'A' Levels & Degrees under their hat
I'm just a South London boy called Mishi
Who grew up in a Council flat!
I'm not sure where this is going
So there's only one thing left to say
A big thank you to all who encouraged
And made me the poet I am today!
Dulwich Poet 12th December 2014
(This is, I have no idea how, the 500th poem I done since I started writing them in January last year. It is also the day before I do my first ever 'feature' at a poetry night, at Platform 1, at the Poetry Cafe, a really good night, where I have enjoyed several Open Mic spots in the past.)
Wednesday 10 December 2014
"True Colours"
The man who makes out he's decent
Holding court on L.B.C.
The perfect foil for Red Ken
Mr. Respectability.
Until you showed your true colours
On that taxi ride back home
Your smug superior manners
And the real you was shown.
Shoting, screaming, swearing
As if your cabbie was a piece of shit
Not realising you're the bigger turd
A typical upper class Tory twit.
To make out it was down to drink
You've really got some front
Do you really think we'll fall for that
You arrogant Tory cunt!
He makes out he understand football
But he is such a prick
He made out he was a Fulham fan
But soon did that mving to Chelsea bandwagon trick.
Recorded by a cabbie
Calling him all the names under the sun
How the mighty have fallen
The former Minister of Fun.
Turns out he's not just a stuck up toff
But a racist to make it worse
But every cloud has a silver lining
Cos it made me write this verse.
He had a pop at his Polish doorman
At his posh pad in St Katherine's Dock
Do you really need any more evidence
That the bloke's a total cock!
Even though they're different people
Mellor And Farage appear to be the same
Pretending to be men of the people
While pointing their posh finger of blame.
He makes out he doesn't like UKIP
But he'd be perfect for a defection
Then it would of our turn to scream
'Stick it up your Hacienda'
As he loses another General Election.
Dulwich Poet 10th December 2014
(This is about former Conservative politician, turned radio presenter, David Mellor, who recently drunkenly abused a taxi driver, on the way home from a bash at Buckingham Palace)
Holding court on L.B.C.
The perfect foil for Red Ken
Mr. Respectability.
Until you showed your true colours
On that taxi ride back home
Your smug superior manners
And the real you was shown.
Shoting, screaming, swearing
As if your cabbie was a piece of shit
Not realising you're the bigger turd
A typical upper class Tory twit.
To make out it was down to drink
You've really got some front
Do you really think we'll fall for that
You arrogant Tory cunt!
He makes out he understand football
But he is such a prick
He made out he was a Fulham fan
But soon did that mving to Chelsea bandwagon trick.
Recorded by a cabbie
Calling him all the names under the sun
How the mighty have fallen
The former Minister of Fun.
Turns out he's not just a stuck up toff
But a racist to make it worse
But every cloud has a silver lining
Cos it made me write this verse.
He had a pop at his Polish doorman
At his posh pad in St Katherine's Dock
Do you really need any more evidence
That the bloke's a total cock!
Even though they're different people
Mellor And Farage appear to be the same
Pretending to be men of the people
While pointing their posh finger of blame.
He makes out he doesn't like UKIP
But he'd be perfect for a defection
Then it would of our turn to scream
'Stick it up your Hacienda'
As he loses another General Election.
Dulwich Poet 10th December 2014
(This is about former Conservative politician, turned radio presenter, David Mellor, who recently drunkenly abused a taxi driver, on the way home from a bash at Buckingham Palace)
Tuesday 9 December 2014
"Charity Begins At Home"
I'm on my way to work
Come out of the Overground
There's no way you will believe
What I have just found.
I went through the barrier
Getting off at Surrey Quays
Or going by its proper name
Surrey Docks, if you please.
I've nothing against charity
As long as it's for a good cause
Went to grab a coin from my pocket
And then I had to pause.
'Bethnal Green Tube Disaster'
During an air raid in the War
Your East End Cockney sparrers' crushed
Crumbled on the staircase and the floor.
It's not the cause I object to
Simply the location
You're the wrong side of the River
This is a South London station.
Pay for your own memorial
You tight East End gits
Pretedning to be chirpy and caring
Until it comes to paying for your Blitz.
Why not go begging to your royalty
They've got a bob or two
Descendants of the dear Queen Mum
Who said she felt like one of you.
When a bomb fell on Buck House
She could lookthe East End the eye
What about Bermondsey, Camberwell & Peckham
That was our fucking cry!
Now I'm not defending Hitler
That clearly wouldn't be right
But the only thing he did half honourable
Was to to bomb east London out of sight.
The only reason I'd contribute to
The memorial to Bethnal Green's dead
Was to remind me lots were West Ham fans
Making it worth giving you my bread!
Dulwich Poet 9th December 2014
(I was surprised to get off the train this morning and seeing bucket collectors for a memorial at Bethnal Green station, where 173 people where crushed in a rush to get into an air raid shelter, in March 1943. The appeal was set up in 2007, and they're still collecting. I have no problem with the memorial, I just didn't like the fact that they had 'encroached' south of the river!)
Come out of the Overground
There's no way you will believe
What I have just found.
I went through the barrier
Getting off at Surrey Quays
Or going by its proper name
Surrey Docks, if you please.
I've nothing against charity
As long as it's for a good cause
Went to grab a coin from my pocket
And then I had to pause.
'Bethnal Green Tube Disaster'
During an air raid in the War
Your East End Cockney sparrers' crushed
Crumbled on the staircase and the floor.
It's not the cause I object to
Simply the location
You're the wrong side of the River
This is a South London station.
Pay for your own memorial
You tight East End gits
Pretedning to be chirpy and caring
Until it comes to paying for your Blitz.
Why not go begging to your royalty
They've got a bob or two
Descendants of the dear Queen Mum
Who said she felt like one of you.
When a bomb fell on Buck House
She could lookthe East End the eye
What about Bermondsey, Camberwell & Peckham
That was our fucking cry!
Now I'm not defending Hitler
That clearly wouldn't be right
But the only thing he did half honourable
Was to to bomb east London out of sight.
The only reason I'd contribute to
The memorial to Bethnal Green's dead
Was to remind me lots were West Ham fans
Making it worth giving you my bread!
Dulwich Poet 9th December 2014
(I was surprised to get off the train this morning and seeing bucket collectors for a memorial at Bethnal Green station, where 173 people where crushed in a rush to get into an air raid shelter, in March 1943. The appeal was set up in 2007, and they're still collecting. I have no problem with the memorial, I just didn't like the fact that they had 'encroached' south of the river!)
Monday 8 December 2014
"Frankie Boy"
It seems like centuries ago
Way before my time
When Frankie Fraser ruled the roost
The hardman of gangland crime.
But was he really evil
Crazy with the pliers?
Call me old fashioned if you like
I reckon the Old Bill were fucking liars!
I'm not say he wasn't a nasty bastard
If you'll excuse my French
But he didn't deserve the treatment he got
From the vindictive beaks on the bench.
He might have hurt some people
But you got what you deserve
If you were to rob off your own
It was a short sharp learning curve.
Truth is he was always brighter
Than those East End upstarts The Krays
And he was a caring bloke, the family man
Right up to his sying days.
He ruled the roost dahn the Walworth Road
Proudly marching up and down
Perched invisible on his head
That gangster royalty crown.
So what if he was a villian
Who could have nasty streak
I reckon he had more integrity than the coppers
Who put him up before the beak.
If there's such a place as heaven
I hope you Rest In Peace
You'll soon be back in business
With plenty of gullible christians to fleece.
Dulwich Poet 8th November 2014
(Lifelong 'career criminal' 'Mad' Frankie Fraser died last week, aged ninety. He was a working class legend, from my area of South London. I wrote this after I'd posted a general RIP message on my Facebook page, and a few mates responded with the 'good riddance to him' type of thing.)
Way before my time
When Frankie Fraser ruled the roost
The hardman of gangland crime.
But was he really evil
Crazy with the pliers?
Call me old fashioned if you like
I reckon the Old Bill were fucking liars!
I'm not say he wasn't a nasty bastard
If you'll excuse my French
But he didn't deserve the treatment he got
From the vindictive beaks on the bench.
He might have hurt some people
But you got what you deserve
If you were to rob off your own
It was a short sharp learning curve.
Truth is he was always brighter
Than those East End upstarts The Krays
And he was a caring bloke, the family man
Right up to his sying days.
He ruled the roost dahn the Walworth Road
Proudly marching up and down
Perched invisible on his head
That gangster royalty crown.
So what if he was a villian
Who could have nasty streak
I reckon he had more integrity than the coppers
Who put him up before the beak.
If there's such a place as heaven
I hope you Rest In Peace
You'll soon be back in business
With plenty of gullible christians to fleece.
Dulwich Poet 8th November 2014
(Lifelong 'career criminal' 'Mad' Frankie Fraser died last week, aged ninety. He was a working class legend, from my area of South London. I wrote this after I'd posted a general RIP message on my Facebook page, and a few mates responded with the 'good riddance to him' type of thing.)
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